Goodnight and Goodbye
by The Girl on Fiendfyre
Summary: And no promises of self-sacrifice are made- because, frankly, the two of you will not honor them. / Cato and Clove, and the night before the Games


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**AN:/ Another angsty one-shot! Major writer's block on my chapter story, Heartlines. And this has been nagging me for a while. So here. I am really drawn to the idea that Cato and Clove are passive- aggressive and in denial about their feelings. A lot of stories out there have them having one romantic night right before the Games, but to me, they would bury their feelings for one another. Because their lives depended on it. So this is Cato and Clove, spending their last night together, doing nothing.**

**Seriously guys, it's a one-shot where they essentially do nothing. **

**Also, second-person narration. So there's that, I guess.**

**It's bad. It's confusing. But I hope you enjoy! Don't forget to review- especially if you favorite! I love hearing from you guys!**

**Disclaimer: Not enough skills to own any part of the Hunger Games universe.**

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You're restless the night before. A million thoughts fly through your mind.

_Stretch before you get into the glass tube. Don't make eye contact with the other tributes during the sixty seconds. Try to kill one tribute from each district- so they can't make alliances later._ _Don't take more than you need from the Cornucopia. Iodine tablets- there's always something in the water. _

You know this all, frankly, know the Games better than you know yourself. You have dedicated your whole life to winning this thing and you can make your parents proud and nothing can stop you now and-

There's something so stifling in the fact that your whole life pivots around this one chance. There's no room for error- one false move, and everything will come crumbling down.

It all lies beyond your fingertips, _just_ out of reach, mocking you.

-Water. You forgot to over-hydrate the day before the Games. You need to get as much water the night before so you won't be thirsty for the first day. The first day, water's more important than sleep- you can run on adrenaline, but dehydration can't be ignored.

_Stupid Clove. Stupid._

You pad to the kitchen, intent on drinking as much water as you can before you pass out.

.

Clove got to the water pitcher already and is downing glasses like they're full of the Capitol's finest liquor.

You pause- just for a second, really. You hesitate, but then you figure you have just as much of a right to be there as she does.

Quietly, you grab a glass tumbler and pluck the pitcher from her left hand, careful not to brush your hand against hers.

[But you can still feel her presence, pulsing, magnetizing, drawing you closer and closer.]

.

You swivel to face him, ponytail slicing through the air. "That's mine," you snarl viciously.

_Easy_, you tell yourself. _There's enough for everyone. _

[But that's not what this is really about, is it?]

.

You're relieved when Clove growls at you, because that means nothing's changed- means that you can still win this thing.

[Something has changed though- she can't look you in the eye anymore.]

Like always, you ignore her growls and sit down right next to her. Side by side, this is where you two belong.

"So, star-crossed lovers of District 12, huh?" You feel a smirk stretch across your face. Her blazing eyes flicker once, and then drop to the floor.

"Can we _not_ talk about them right now?" she sighs.

.

"Well, what _do_ you want to talk about then?" he asks.

You don't want to spend your last few moments with him talking about District 12.

You want to yell and scream at him for talking to Glimmer instead of you [it's the last night, for God's sake], but you can't bring yourself to mention it.

You want to kiss him like he kissed you on the train.

[You want to go back.]

.

She doesn't respond, just gulps water loudly in this echoing silence.

"Remember the first time we met?" you ask in an effort to quell the silence. "You weren't scared at all by me, threatened me with your kn-"

"-I don't want to talk about that either," she spits out venomously.

You look at her, startled. She's right, of course. That part of you is dead, and that part of her is long gone. She glares in your direction- but at your forehead, not into your eyes like she used to.

[She hasn't since you left Two.]

.

There's a long pause, then he drinks some more water. Squinting at the Capitol skyline, "Then I guess there's nothing to say."

You don't want to relive the past, don't want to think about your family, _definitely _don't want to talk about the Games.

You choke out, "I guess not."

Always needing to get in the last word, he replies, "If that's what you want."

[If you can't go home, you want to sit there, with him, and never leave this room, never leave this moment. You'll settle for that.]

.

Suddenly, she's scrunching up her face in an attempt to staunch tears from welling up in her eyes.

You notice, of course. You always notice.

"Damn hormones," she mutters, smearing the tears all over her cheeks with her palms in an attempt to wipe them away. "Capitol food is probably pumped full of steroids and shit."

You know why she's really crying, she knows you know why she's really crying. But she won't give up her pretenses, won't look weak if her life depended on it. It's so _Clove_, so preciously her- and yet it's not, because Clove wouldn't cry in the first place.

And maybe you're not Cato anymore, because before you can stop yourself, you gently wipe the tears from her delicate face with your rough thumb.

Her magnificent eyes fall on your own for just a second.

[But it's long enough.]

You fall into her, the same way you might have fallen in love with her: slowly, then all at once.

.

Suddenly, you're leaning in closer. What are you doing? You don't know, you don't know, you don't know. And he's leaning in too and _Clove, get your shit together_ and-

"Clove," he sighs.

He doesn't lean in any closer, just presses his forehead against your own, breath mingling with your own. Neither of you pulls away. You squeeze your eyes shut.

There's a long pause, and you can feel a million emotions pass between the heat of your foreheads.

Not a single word is exchanged. But it's enough.

In the silence, you let yourself imagine a life where you weren't reaped, where you weren't forced to choose between your best friend and surviving [you can't call what you do living]. Where you let yourself care for Cato, and it didn't come back to bite you in the ass.

It's nice, really.

[But then you remember where you really are. Then it burns.]

.

She draws back suddenly, like she's been scalded. Her eyes bore into your forehead- _always the forehead, never the eyes_-when suddenly they lock onto your own. Her hazel eyes are a smoldering green in this Capitol moonlight. They assault you, leave you breathless. _Don't look into her eyes, Cato- whatever you do. _

Nevertheless, you stare back, transfixed.

[She'll be the death of you.]

.

You wish you could find the words to tell her that she's the only one that could ever make you waver from your dreams of victory. That she's the most…. _unprecedented _girl you've ever met, that she's fucking special and fierce and so, so beautiful. That it shouldn't have ended this way. That you'll always remember her.

But with her, words fall short.

.

Synchronized, you do everything synchronized. In this airtight room, you both breathe in together, both exhale together. You've been pushing and pulling at each other since the Reaping, clinging and desperate for something you can't even describe. But tonight, in these last few hours, it's time. Time for a clean break.

It is for the best.

[It _hurts_.]

This is the end, the last remains of the best friendship you could have ever stumbled upon.

[God forbid you went _looking_ for this.]

.

District Two is big enough that district partners are sometimes introduced for the first time to each other at Reapings. You imagine if you had met Cato just a few days ago, instead of a lifetime ago.

It would have been better.

It would have been better without this bond, this baggage.

It would have been better, but infinitely times worse.

You wonder if he's the wolf in sheep's clothing or a blessing in disguise.

.

You stare at his hand that's just lying on the couch between the two of you. Cautiously, you place your own on top. He doesn't move a muscle- except you catch his jaw tighten a little bit.

You know what it means.

A thousand years ago [six days previous], you would have been glad, triumphant.

Now, it just leaves you a little sad.

.

You both ignore the traces of light creeping onto the horizon, will time to move a little slower.

Sometime later [sixty seven minutes later] in the collective silence, you stand up together from the couch, leaving the water pitcher empty on the table.

In your place, you leave Cato and Clove.

.

Tomorrow, there will be Cato, and there will be Clove.

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You turn, glance over your shoulder one last time, let go.

"Goodnight."

[To you, it sounds more like 'goodbye'.]

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**So the point of the ending was to have the second-person narration be a little more ambiguous. At the beginning, it's pretty easy to figure out who's talking. But at the end, I tried to make their emotions kind of mix together and have the passages be less clear. Because they're separating, see? And they have to slip into the same Career persona, see? *sobbing* Why am I so pathetic. **

**Meh, I'll probably re-edit this later when I'm not so emotionally compromised. **

**Please review with thoughts! **


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